Cinnamon and Smoke
by Da Fooz
Summary: Victor is dragged into a fight that, for once, was not of his creation.
1. Chapter 1

I'm not gonna bore ya with a long list o' the things I'm the best at. You've heard it all before. Let's just say I'm the best, and leave it at that. If it's out there, I've probably done it, twice. Victor Creed, the baddest guy to ever sign a contract or to take out a suspect. I also go by Sabretooth, El Tigre, oh, a lot o' names. Practically every law enforcement agency's gotta file on me, an' they ain't built a prison yet that can hold me fer long. Hellgate, Canadian Federal, The Vault? Kitty stuff. So why am I here, slummin' it in sleazy dives, instead o' gettin' on with my life? Well, there's the problem. I'm tryin' to figger that one out.

So like a chump, I'm readin' this letter I picked up, through an old contact I'd almost forgot about. Hell, I did forget him, since I thought he was dead. Just goes to show ya, I guess, about that assumin' business. Then he shows up, practically at my front door, dead again. Now my memory occasionally plays tricks on me, but I don't think I'm the one who killed him, though I did put him outta his misery. Least I could do fer someone in the business. I tend to remember those who buy the farm on the end o' my claws. All that was left on him was this letter, an' a scent I've never gotten before. Looks like there's a new player in the woods, an' they've picked the wrong chump to set up.

The letter was all in code, but one I knew. It had been a while since I was in the business, but I ain't forgotten everything about it. Someone wanted to talk to me, real bad. Bad enough to send some city boy up into the Canadian Rockies to find me kind o' bad. I gotta admit, it caught my interest. So I took some time off o' my huntin' expedition, an' headed into the city. New York City. The smell of it hit me long before I could see the lights, an' I wince. Now I remember why I left this damn town.

The letter mentioned meetin' at a bar, but no name to look for. So I parked the car, slummed, an' hunted. It's one o' the many things I'm good at, but you knew that too. After four hours o' smoke, people, an' loud music, I'm just about to call it quits an' murder someone just fer good measure, when I catch it. The scent catches me off guard. I remember that frail vaguely, though fer the life o' me I can't remember when from. It takes another two hours, but I finally pin it down.

The doorman gives me plenty o' room on my way in. Smart man. I brace fer the inevitable cacophony o' light an' loud music, an' it does it's usual tricks on my senses. Wincing, I wonder how anyone could find this entertainin', an' start lookin' around fer the frail I'm supposed to meet here. I could wander through the press o' dancers an' drinkers, but what's the use o' havin' heightened senses if yer not gonna use them? Followin' the trail o' her cigarette smoke, I push a couple o' guys outta my way, an' pull up a chair. Slidin' into the seat, I grin across the table to her. "Hello, darlin'. How's tricks?"

"How'd you find me so quick?" She's a bit startled at my appearance. Rumors get around, an' I figger that she was expectin' me to show up all splattered or such. I've been havin' a time holdin' it together lately. Or maybe it was the grin. I'm told it's scary.

Gesturin' around an' snaggin' an ashtray from one o' the servin' gals, I laugh a bit at her expense. "Yer the only gal I know that smokes that brand. That an' yer perfume, you stand out in a crowd. Though you did lead me on a merry chase. Tryin' to lose me?"

"No. I was making sure you were not followed. It's been dangerous out there recently." Her hands shake a bit as she reaches fer her drink. She's been packin' them away fer a while, goin' on the number o' empty glasses scattered on the table. Funny. I don't remember her as a drinker.

"I'm not being followed. An' if I was, it wouldn't be a problem." Leanin' back a bit in my chair, I stare at her. "Now what is so damn important that I've gotta come all the way down here, to this damn city?" I'm not feelin' so good, with the lights an' the music gettin' to me. "An' why a dance club?"

She smiles through her fear. "I was hoping it would put me at an advantage. The press of people and security will dissuade my trackers." Very cute. Also hopin' it will keep me off-balance in the bargain, I'll bet.

"Did Karriden get through to you?" That was his name. I guess it really did slip my mind.

"What was left o' him did. Someone did a job on him, an' there wasn't much left by the time I found him. So I put Karriden outta his misery."

"Oh...," an' she suddenly looks smaller.

"I'm hopin' you weren't the one who sent him. What the hell was a city boy like that doin' in the Rockies?" If she sent him, she's gotten really dumb in the last few years.

"No! Um, no. It was our... mutual employer. We needed to get ahold of you, and it was the only way we could think of." She startles for a bit, then recovers nice. I'll give her points fer that. An' she's smart enough not to ask what I did with the rest, or make eye contact. She used to be a real pro. I wonder what she's been up to lately?

"I'm retired. I thought I made that real clear to everyone in the business. I've got enough to deal with fer right now, so I'm off the market." I've been busy alright. That runt ain't the only one with friends that can slice data like no one's business. Trackin' down my own life ain't high on my list o' fun things to do, but it's important. I think.

"I know, and that's why I'm here. My employer wishes to hire you. Simple case, over quick." Leanin' forward an' droppin' all the double talk, she whispers, "I need you back. We're getting picked off, and I'm on that list."

Aw, hell. I guess someone did write chump on my face when I wasn't lookin' this mornin'. "No, darlin'. I toldja, I'm off the market right now. Maybe in a year or five, I'll have some time, but not right now. Not even fer a weep an' clear. Not even fer old time's sake fer you."

She orders another drink. Great, she's now gonna get drunk on me. "It's not a request. You're on that list too. Everyone who's ever worked with him is."

"Is it bigger than a breadbox? Come on, who are we talkin' about here?" She expects me to remember everyone I've done a job fer? Get real. I ain't no damn mind reader.

"That's classified, Vic. You know that." She lights another cigarette. "And it's not wetwork. My employer requires a bodyguard, and you're the best on his list." I know I'm the best, so that's no news to me. But now I'm tryin' to remember if she knows my full name, or only the Vic part. This gets so flamin' confusing at times.

"Do I look like someone who cares? I don't care if it's wetwork, body guardin', or abstract paintin', right now. I'm busy." Paintin'? Now where did that come from? The lights in here are gettin' to me, I guess. An me pullin' guard duty right now is a sure fire ticket on the oblivion express.

"Stop clowning around, Vic. This is serious. Dead serious. Karriden is one of about seven that have been hit in the last month, and the remaining list is getting thin. I told you, this was not a request." Seven? Damn, I thought they were better than that. Guess I've been outta contact too long, not to see this happenin'. Who's been handlin' the trainin', a priest? Seven in a month is bad fer business. It's not like us mercenaries an' assassins an' such grow on trees or somethin'. It's a fine art, honed over years. It's either in yer blood, or it ain't.

"So, I'll say again. Who wants to hire me? Just as an object lesson, darlin'. I'm still not fer hire." Who is she talkin' about an' what is she so afraid of? I ain't tearin' into her or such. It's not like she's on my personal list, though if this keeps up she might be just fer principle. I don't like gettin' jerked around.

The rush o' people around us never lets up, as the midnight hour approaches. She sits there, playin' with her drink an' her cigarette fer a few, I guess tryin' to get the words in order. Meanwhile I'm fightin' against one hell of a headache. I really hate this feelin', like someone's stickin' icepicks through my head. It's way too easy fer me to lose it lately, what with Birdie gone an' all. Fightin' the edge o' the red haze outta my mind, I keep talkin'. "I'm not gonna be here all night, darlin', so's you better talk fast."

The tone o' my words startle her, but it gets her attention. I'm startin' to act like my own rumors. "Just stop it, ok? I'm not some joker new to the business, Vic, and I'm not going to be treated like one. I am dead serious. Whoever is hunting us, they are good. As in better than you were when you were in it."

Now I'm interested. Someone better than me? I'll believe it when I see it, but she's pretty sure of it. Her sweat is nervous, an' her hands just won't stop shakin', an' I know it can't be all be from me. I ain't done nothin' yet. "Who's the employer that's losin' all the hired help? Or is that a big secret too? Come on, if I worked fer them, I'm cleared fer a name at least."

"That's just it. I don't know. None of us do. We get our instructions, and we follow them. He wants protection, and you." She leans close, her breath just brushin' my face. "I want you, to find the employer. I've missed working with you, bad temper and all."

I lean back. I'm partial to a drink now an' again, but her breath could stun a bear at twenty paces. None o' this is helpin'. "So, you want a name. He wants a guard. I want nothin' from either of you." Someone who enjoys workin' with me? Now there's a laugh riot. That's why I don't have partners anymore. I always got yelled at fer not bringin' them home in one piece.

Great. Now she's about to cry. One o' the many reasons not to get involved with a frail. They leak too easy at the eyes fer my tastes. "He's willing to pay, at your high end rates. If that's not enough, I've got a little in savings I'll add to it." Oh, so I'm a slab of meat up fer auction now. Guess I've been outta touch too long, her people to think that about me. I ain't never been fer sale.

"I'm not on the market, and I sure as hell ain't up fer sale." Lookin' around, I know somethin's botherin' me about this whole set-up, an' it ain't the fact I can't remember this frail's name either. But scannin' the crowd don't point out anythin', an' neither do the scents. Everythin's buried in a layer o' smoke, sweat, an' alcohol.

"So you can go back to yer boss, an' tell him I ain't fer sale, rent, or loan." Pickin' up my own drink, I go to stand up, almost knockin' some punk kid off his feet. She acts like she's gonna follow me to the streets outside, an' she probably would have, if the gunfire hadn't started about then.

Throwin' myself at the floor, I'm hopin' the shooters are too dumb to sweep below their knees. Yeah, I could heal from a few shots, but I don't wanna mess up my new jacket with somethin' as tame as my own blood. The crowd panics, an' I get a few bruises from being stepped on an' tripped over, but i'm not the only one on the floor anymore. Some o' these kids know what gunfire means, an' they ducked too, along with those hit by the wall o' lead comin' through the club. The smell o' burnt powder an' blood fills the club, swampin' out the cigarettes an' sweat. Bottles explode, coverin' everyone with glass an' half finished drinks, an' the cries from the stupid kids not smart enough to duck fill the air.

Silence. The gunfire shuts down, leavin' the moans an' cries o' the clubbers, an' a few remainin' speakers still wailin' about the end o' the world. There's a body next to me. Well, there's a lot o' bodies next to me, but only this one smells o' that damn perfume an' her smoke. Guess she's lost her edge. I look over, knowin' what I'm gonna find, an' I'm not disappointed by my eyes. She's a mess, but she's still breathin', which is pretty amazin' considerin' the number o' holes she suddenly grew.

"...Please... take this..." There's somethin' in her hand, but she drops it. I pocket it, an' grin at her as she breathes her last. Everyone should have a reason to go into oblivion scared, when I'm around. Too bad I never remember her name. But this got personal. I don't take kindly to being shot at, no matter who's doin' the shootin'.

Glancin' over the top of one o' the tables, I try to get a picture o' the gunners, but the smoke combined with the light show still goin' on is too hard to get through. All I see are the guns glintin' in the lights an' helmets. A memory pops up, but I bury it, workin' on the now. I'm hopin', if I'm lucky, the gunners will clear out, then I can vanish. Not my style, you say? I don't care to advertise that i'm back in town, thank you very much. I'm all fer throw-downs, but on my terms. An' these just ain't my terms tonight.

Most o' the gunners start to leave, but one idiot decides he wants a trophy or somethin' to celebrate his great triumph over the evil punk kid clubbers they've just mowed down. Oh yeah, the mighty hunter surveys his prey. I've done some shitty stuff, but i can't remember slaughterin' a gaggle o' kids just to get one frail. I've killed kids before, but usually fer a very good reason. I was paid good. Now there's nothin' wrong with a few momentos, but this fool figgers I'm just one o' the dead. His first mistake.

His second is not usin' the gun on me when I grab ahold o' his wrist, an' start twistin'. Did you know it only takes twelve pounds o' pressure to break a human's wrist? Did you know I can break bricks an' bend metal with my grip? Now this gunner knows too. He starts screamin' up a storm, an' actually tries to slap me. Slap me, fer cryin' out loud. Now I'm insulted.

"Big mistake," I snarl, get a good grip, an' start pullin'. He yells, an' goes over, his shoulder not no longer connected all proper like with the rest o' him. I usually don't go fer the obvious, an' I'm still tryin' to remember that I don't want anyone knowin' I'm back, but the scene was just cryin' fer it. Who am I to deny drama it's due? So I bury my other hand in the fool's stomach. Grab, twist, an' pull. The volume comin' from him suddenly drops, as the moron can now see his own lungs. Fer the few seconds left to him, anyways.

But this kinda gets the attention o' the other shooters, which marks this as a rather dumb move on my part. So sue me. One eviscerated corpse is enough, so I'll use their own hardware against them. Grabbing the now very dead fool's gun, makin' sure it don't slide outta my hand, I open up on them. Now the noise is back, as the shooters open up on me. Tryin' to make their lives a little more fun, I roll under the wreckage o' the tables, shootin' about knee height. Idiots. They start droppin', along with the few kids who were dumb enough to stand back up.

Now I'm up to it to my elbows, tryin' to figger out if the night can get any worse. Over half of them are down, but I can't really stick my head out to spot the others. The scent of hot metal comes from my gun, along with the tang o' gunpowder. I'm guessin' they'll be dumb, an' try to rush me. It would make the night more interestin', an' I'd get a couple o' seconds o' pure slashin'. But someone on their team is smart. I hear a pop, almost lost in the barrage o' the firefight, an' then my world goes white. Magnesium flare! I hate it when they don't play fair.

Droppin' the gun, I grab my eyes, howlin' at the spots doin' a tango across my vision. Fer a split moment, I wish I wasn't a mutant with heightened senses. I feel more than hear another grenade o' some type go off, an' now my ears are ringin' too. Definitely not my night. I can feel the floor tremor fer a moment, as the goons make their exit. I'm left crouched on the floor, blind an' deaf, tryin' to figger out where all o' this went so wrong.

My senses finally fade back to normal, an' I stand up in the wreckage o' that once was a hoppin' club in this city. A few o' the less mangled kids are crawlin' around, gettin' helped by the partiers that lucked out an' didn't get hurt. A quick search o' the frail's body tells me she don't have anythin' of importance on her. But whatever she dropped, I've still got in my pocket.

Stuffin' the stolen gun in the waist o' my jeans, I take inventory. No bullets, scratches, or marks. I smell like an alcoholic on a binge, but otherwise I turned out just fine, which is strange. Whoever was in charge o' those shooters knew just how to slow me down. Not many people know how to do that, but I got sideswiped tonight. So why not finish it, an' win some real points? In this type o' life, I know I'm worth a lot as a notch on someone's gunbelt.

"Ahem." Someone coughs behind me, an' I whirl around, hand already restin' on the gun. Through the smoke, I can make out a figure standin' in the entrance. I can't get her scent through the smoke an' such in the room, but I can make out a figure. A gal, no less. Is it just me, or did someone decide it's pick on Victor night, an; not tell me?

She's got me, dead bang, but all she does is point at me, an' fade into the dark outside. I run fer the door, causin' not a few moans from the poor saps I step on still on the floor, but I don't make it in time to catch her. All I get fer my trouble is a glimpse o' black hair, an' the hauntin' scent o' cinnamon an' smoke.


	2. Chapter 2

I ain't been in this part o' town fer years, but I've already got the keys in hand when I make it to the door. Unlockin' it an' enterin', the glow from the hall light greets me cheerfully. I punch it out, smilin' at the sound o' breakin' glass. I'm not in the mood to be cheered up. At least the power splice I put on this place never got shot down or found. Which means it's time fer a long hot shower, to get all this damn alcohol smell off me. Surprised at that? Just because I get a thrill outta gettin' bloody, don't mean I'm a damn savage.

Sheddin' the coat an' clothes, I do a quick check fer damage again, knowin' I won't find anything. After all these years, it still amazes me. How does it work? Finding' nothin', as usual, I turn on the hot tap, an' proceed to fry myself. Moments like these are worth continuin' the fight to live, so it was only fate that led to the phone ringin'. I debate fer a bit on answerin' it, then give up an' rush to the phone. I'm expectin' that annoyin' click that tells you that you just missed them, an' start to think about blowin' up the phone companies. But I'm in luck. There's still a voice on the other end.

"Victor?" I can't place the voice, or even the gender. But I am curious how they know me, an' this number. Especially since I never connected a phone line to the house.

"Who is this?" I know, not exactly the smartest come back line I coulda come up with, but I'm tired, cold in the A/C, an' puddlin' water on a nice shag carpet. Runnin' a hand through my hair to get it out of my way, wonderin' where my scissors are, I listen, tryin' to search my mind fer this voice. Nothin' comes up.

"You are in danger there. Move quickly, dearest, or you shall suffer." An' the line goes dead. No dial tone, operator, or anythin'. I'm holdin' on to a dead phone. It takes me a moment to register this, an' set the receiver back on the hook. Me? In danger? Please. I'm doubting that. And would be stupid enough to call me their dearest? The few frails I've had in my life are either dead or hate my guts. So they can join the soft parade, fer all I care. An' I can't think o' one guy suicidal enough to say that to my face. I'm standin' in the middle o' the hall, drippin' water, lookin' like somethin' the cat dragged in. I'm allowed these jokes. Don't even think about it. So much fer a relaxing shower. It's enough to piss someone off at times.

Shuttin' the water off an' grabbin' a towel, I wander around the house, rememberin' where everythin' is again. It's been a long time, an' one look in the fridge tells me that I was gonna sleep hungry. Inhaling the stale bag o' pretzels I find lodged behind dishwashin' soap (now why did I get that?!?), I lounge on the sofa in the livin' room. I jump up once to try that sixty nine thing on the phone, but the line is still dead. Wonderin' who thought o' such a loaded call number fer a phone service, I go back to the sofa, bringin' out a few spring groans from the battered furniture.

Starin' at a ceiling fan never does much more fer me than put me to sleep, an' this is not exception to that rule. I keep startlin' myself awake though, expectin' to hear the phone again or roll off the couch, I can't figger out which. But neither happens. This is ridiculous. I'm actin' like some damn rookie to this kinda life, an' that just ain't me. The clock on the wall laughs at me, sayin' it's only three in the morn. It sure feels like later, with everythin' that's gone on tonight. I must be gettin' old or somethin'. But the clock just keeps tickin' away, markin' time off fer me. Tick. Tick. Tick...

I come to a bit later. My hands are a bit sore, an' the first thing I see is carpet. Picking myself off the damn floor, I look around, kinda expectin' some damage in the room. I'm not disappointed. The clock's in shambles, along with about six square feet o' sheetrock. Luckily, I didn't tear out any o' the support boards, though the others are on the floor like the sheetrock. The couch looks like a lost cause as well. By the watch on the table, it's been a whopping ten minutes since I checked outta reality. A little more work, an' I'll have a new doorway to the kitchen. That's me. Sabretooth, killer, mercenary, wetworks specialist, interior remodeler. I'm the best, right? This is gettin' silly.

Killing the lights the old fashioned way, with the light switch, I head to the bedroom, figgerin' at least I'll tear up a roon designed fer sleepin' in. At least I had the sense to put a really big bed in here. I hate it when my feet hang over the edge. You have no idea how hard it is to find beds long enough fer me. Surprised again? Big bad bruiser, worried about a chill on his feet? Damn straight. It leads to nightmares. I know there's nothin' under the bed, but why tempt fate? I have enough nightmares, without contributin' to it. Not to mention it puts my feet to sleep. Settin' the A/C on really cold, I dig into the stack o' comforters. Shuttin' my eyes is easy. Shuttin' off my brain takes a bit more. I keep seein' that flash o' black hair, an' smellin' cinnamon an' smoke. Why cinnamon? An' why were the goons in helmets? This ain't a police state, last time I checked.

It takes a bit o' tossin' an' turnin', but I finally check out to dreamland. What are dreams like fer me? Well, I'm a pretty mean guy, but there's stuff that scares even me. Like the garbage that collects in my mind. Moments I can't remember quite clearly when I wake up, but it's enough to bring me awake screamin' at times. Bits o' glintin' memory of the past that don't fit together anymore, shards o' murders an' atrocities done by yers truly, trophies from glorious hunts, you know, the usual stuff. I think it's only in dreams that I have any regret. I think. I can't ever remember them enough to tell.

But I'm in luck. Tonight is just oblivion. So it takes me a bit to realize I'm awake in the dark. Clearin' through the fuzzy feelin', I try to figger out what the hell woke me up. The lights are still out, an' there's no noise, so what? I don't smell anything but the sheets an' me. Not even a hint o' somethin' that don't belong here. What is wrong with me? Rollin' outta the bed, I wrap one o' the sheets around me, an' start checkin' the house. All the windows an' doors are locked an' fine, an' there's noting in here that shouldn't be, but somethin's chewin' at me. An' I just know that it's close. Going back to the bedroom, I sit on the edge o' the bed, tryin' to figger it out. Glancin' at the clock on the nightstand, it finally dawns on me. The clock is dead. I'm not hearin' the hum o' power in the walls.

Wow. I knew I was good, but that's pretty amazin', even fer me. Grabbin' my jeans off the floor, I slide into them, every nerve on alert. It's just the power. There's localized blackouts all over New York all the time. It's not like I've paid a light bill fer this place in years. There's a good handful o' reasons fer this. An' I don't believe a flamin' one. I grab the gun off the floor that's I'm borrowin' from the dead goon, an' check the clip. I've got seven shots left in it. Not like I need a gun to do damage, but it's comfortin' in my hand. All o' this is too much like comin' home. I'm retired, dammit. Makin' sure I won't do somethin' stupid like try to shoot a gun with the safety on, I set it to fire. Then I check the house again.

This time, I see it. There's a crack in the panel that leads to the attic. The attic's where the fuse box is. Question is, how long was the power out before it woke me up? What are the odds that someone's still up there? An' just how quiet can I be gettin' up there? Pretty quiet, all told. The best, after all. Easing the panels outta the way, I put the gun in the waist o' my jeans, an' slip through the hole, not a creak of complaint from the boards and panels. Ask me how someone as heavy as me can do that, an' I'll tell you as soon as I figger it out myself. It's dark as night up here, not even a glow comin' through the single window. That's because I covered it up years ago. Ain't I the smart kitty? There's still enough of a glow from the light comin' through the downstairs window, but most people wouldn't be able to use it. Then again, this is me we're talkin' about.

Oh, I can smell them now. There's two still up here, an' they are scared, the nervous sweat pourin' offa them. Guess they know who they're jerkin' around. It's moments like there that bring a smile to my face. Creepin' along, just another friendly shadow, I get close enough to practically smell their choice in aftershave. Young kids, they don't have that stench of age on them. I'm grinnin' in the dark, just imaginin' all the things I could do to them in my leisure time, an' then I'm horribly betrayed. By my own stomach.

"growlll..." Oh, they heard that. A sudden rush o' gun oil fills the attic, an' I can almost guess the gauge they're hopin' to hit me with. Forty-fives, I'm guessin'. No more time for finesse, or showin' off my sneakin'. So I jump, broadsidin' on o' the punks before he gets a chance to draw an extra breath to yell with. His partner get his breath though, an' lets out one piercin' shriek in his panic. I catch a gun barrel upside my head fer my troubles, but that's about it from the punk now pinned to the floor. I latch my claws through his chest, gettin' a good grip on his breastbone. I get the gun barrel again, an' then he brings the other hand up. That one gets bit fer it's trouble, an' the old familiar copper taste fills my mouth. This kid's whimperin' an' beggin', while his partner is in the middle of a beautiful spazz fit behind us. Neither one can be a day over eighteen. So I open the one in my grip up like a Christmas present, tossin' the breastbone over my shoulder an' enjoyin' the fadin' light in the kid's eyes.

What I should have done was get over my thing fer gloatin' an' handle the other kid, but I don't realize that, 'till the other kid hits me. Now that took guts. So I take his momentum, an' over we go, headin' fer the wall, all arms an' legs. He's got height, but there's no meat on his bones. But I get too carried away, an' forget about the window. Oops. Out we go, an' in the second between the attic an' the street below, the kid manages to not only cock his damn gun, but bury the barrel in my guts an' start shootin'! He manages three good shots, before we return to the earth. We hit hard enough to break bones, an' some in this kid do give under the strain. I roll outta the way, holdin' my guts, roaring in pain. That really hurt.

He's up like a damn jumpin' jack, an' I'm guessin' he's gotta be hopped up on somethin' not to feel those broken bones. He's still swingin' that gun around, an' I roll outta the way an' back to my feet, the blood between my claws slowin' down like it always does right about now. "You killed them all!" he screams, an' starts takin' pot shots at me. So I surprise him, an' rush towards him. I get another shot fer my troubles, but how he's in my hands, an' most people don't enjoy this part. Then he shrieks again, Alot worse than the racket he made upstairs. Not quite on the level o' Banshee, but pretty damn close. It hits me like a car, an' I go flyin', ears ringin' like a bad night at a casino. Now I'm pissed off.

Somethin's wrong. The kid falls to his knees, but I'm stuck in slow motion, seein' the edges o' memories dancin' in my eyes. I'm fightin' through suddenly thick air, tryin' to get to this kid an' put him outta both of our miseries. Aw, hell. Mercury tipped bullets. I know this feelin' too well. Way too well, an' how long it's gonna take me to filter this outta my system. So now I'm wonderin', where's the back-up? Since I have DOA stamped on my face fer the next few moments, this is about the time the kid's backup should show up.

The backup does show up, about the time I get to the kid an' disconnected his head from his neck, but it's not fer him. "Vic!" I turn, still not all quite here, an' see the car swing around the corner o' the street, an' the passenger door pop open. Now I know she's dead, since it was my own son that did the deed in front of me, but I swear that Birdie's the one drivin'. Going more on instinct than intelligence, I stumble fer the car, the poison in my system still boggin' me down. I hear sirens as I climb into the car, but she closes the door, an' we're off.

"You were warned that this place was compromised, and you still remained. Are you sure you're the best?" The gal's voice is fadin' in an' out on me, but I catch the gist. The nifty side effects are fadin' away, leavin' me a whole if slightly bloody mess ruinin' the nice fabric seats o' the car.

"I'm still alive, darlin'. That counts in my book." I look over at her, as her face finally shows through the memory o' Birdie. She ain't quite as cute, but the build an' structure's about the same. "You the one that called me?"

"No. I'm just the driver. Your guardian angel called me, and sent me over. She warned me that there would probably be trouble." She's not a pro. She's drivin' too fast, an' the tense slick o' sweat keeps her hands slidin' on the steerin' wheel. She's probably just that, some valet driver called into somethin' way over her head. If I was someone else, I'd feel sorry fer her. But I'm not, so I don't.

"So who are you, an' who's my guardian angel I owe the drive to?" An' if I don't get at least one answer this time, I promise myself that they won't be able to identify her by dental records.

"My name is Bobbi. However, your guardian angel has insisted on remaining in the shadows." So much fer that. Next time, I'd better put a more strict tag on my questions. Glancin' out the window, I notice that we're goin' nowhere real fast.

"All right Bobbi, where are we goin'? This ain't been a good night fer me, so just cut to the chase." She looks nervous at this, bitin' her lip an' all. So there's no destination. She's not gonna take me to my guardian angel, an' she sure as hell ain't gonna take me to her home. I'm not exactly presentable, on the best o' nights, and this don't look like one o' them moments. I turn my attention to the road, tryin' to figger out this new moment of sudden mindless brutality in my life. I killed them all? Who? I've killed lots, startin' at about nine years old or so. I'm supposed to remember a certain atrocity? Get real.

She shifts in her seat, more than a little bit worried I'm guessin'. After all, if her boss told half the stories about me out there, I'd be afraid o' me too. Really. And I ain't exactly presentable right now either, what with mine and the kids' blood makin' a mess all over the place. But I get no answer to the location question, an' tonight had been filled with too many unanswered questions fer this particular hairy psychopath to take, so I take it out on her car. By the time I calm down, there's little left o' the upolstery, or the dashboard fer that matter, an' there's a big hole where the passenger side window used to be. I'm wonderin' if I used my fist, head, or somethin' from the car on that one. Bobbi's whimperin', tryin' not to scream, and I'm just sittin' there, this nutty grin on my face fer no real reason. Sometimes there's moments when it's nice to be diagnosed completely insane.

Bobbi's fiddlin' with her seat belt. It would be kinda entertainin' to watch her jump, but it won't get nothin' solved fer me. "Hey, quit that." I reach across her, to lock the door, an' make yet another stupid mistake fer the evenin'. Believin' she's unarmed. She slaps this sticky bristly thing across my back, an' the surroundin' skin goes instantly numb. I reach fer it to pull it off, an' the other hand goes fer her throat to let her feel my irritation all up close like, but whoever designed this thing knew what they were doin'. I lose all muscle control, barely able to blink, an' she gets the fun o' tryin' to wrestle 275 pounds o' bloody Victor off her lap while keepin' us on the road. I would have laughed, if it wasn't happenin' to me.

Definitely not my night tonight. I'm just not thinkin', an' it's startin' to show. I decide I'm gonna spend however long it takes fer this damn numbness to wear off about a very colorful death fer Bobbi, but she ended up with me lookin' out the window at the road ahead. It's like the ceiling fan then. About half a minute goes by, the little lines on the road go flash flash flash, an' I'm out like a light. So much fer that plannin'. Then all I remember is the hint o' cinnamon an' smoke.


	3. Chapter 3

I do come to, though the poundin' in my head makes me regret it real quick. I've been dumped on a very nice, if slightly short bed, in a rather posh room. Someone has serious money to burn, by the looks o' this room. Takin' my time gettin' to my feet, I stretch out, back poppin' in sympathy. It takes me a moment, with me not havin' a very swift night so far, to realize that I've still got the gun, an' whatever the gal from the club gave to me. Figgerin' no time like the present, I pull the doo-dad out, the hint o' her blood still on it. It's one o' them oversized plastic dice that go on keychains, but someone sawed it in half an' installed a hinge. My claws were never any good at finesse workin', so it takes me a moment or two to open it, an' discover that someone's put a microchip inside this thing. Well, ain't that grand?

Shuttin' the dice with the chip still inside of it an' stuffin' it in my pocket again, I do a bit more of lookin' through the room at everythin'. An' we do have everythin'. Vanity mirrors, full walk in closets, enough skin creams to bring life an' luster to a mummy, enough perfume to knock over a whole herd of horses, the works. Oh, an' enough frill to make me sick to my stomach. I am not a frill type o' guy. There's a note on the night table, welcomin' me of all things, an' statin' that the meals will begin about an hour after I wake up. Good. At least I'll feed the traitor, I'm thinkin', an' I poke my stomach fer good measure.

I make the mistake o' catchin' a glimpse o' me in one o' the mirrors, and wince. It looks rather bad, even fer my usual habit o' wearin' my victories. My jeans are a lost cause, even if I did do laundry. I've got a rather stylish streak of my own blood through my hair, so I can figger I used my head on the car window. The rest o' me is covered in dried blood, flakin' off around the edges. An' fer a moment, I can see somethin' haunted in my eyes. Or a trick o' the light. So I grin. Yep, it is rather scary lookin'.

Rummagin' through the collection of oils an' cleaners an' more moisturizers than I care to name, I find somethin' not too bad, an' start scrubbin' with a shirt nabbed from one o' the closets. It takes a bit o' work, especially the mess in the air, but I'm finally kinda clean, though now I reek of almonds to my nose. It's better than strawberries I tell myself, an' then start tearin' through the closets, lookin' fer somethin' that won't be too embarassin', Not even botherin' to look at the footwear, the best I can do is some slacks, an' a pullover shirt o' some shiny material I can't even begin to identify. The slacks are more than a bit snug, an' the shirt is long an' baggy enough to make me think it's really someone's really short dress missin' the belt to it, but I don't look too bad in the mirror. I'd look like some rich prep, if I could wipe the killer's eyes outta the picture. With 'em, I just look mean. But I can work with that.

Findin' a chain from the jewelry box that's long enough to just slip on takes a bit o' work. I've got a thick neck, an' there's no way I'm gonna try to fiddle with some clasp. I'd just break the damn thing. Whoever belongs to this stuff has a thing fer chokers, but that's way beyond what I can handle. Stringin' the dice on the chain, I drop it outta sight under the shirt, after another glance in the mirror reminds me that these slacks don't leave much to the imagination, an' a lump o' plastic in my pocket would stand out. Now I've just gotta find someone to let me outta this room. The almond junk is spreadin', an' it's givin' me a stomachache. The door is locked, an' as far as I can tell, barred from the outside. It's an interior room, so no windows. I'm startin' to get that jerked around feelin' again, an' I'm not happy about that. But I fight off the urge to break somethin', since whoever's in charge around here is plannin' to feed me. I'm hopin' they cooked alot, because by the feelin', it's been about a full day since I checked out to the numb patch, an' I was hungry then.

Close enough to that hour from the moment I opened my eyes to not quibble about a few minutes, I hear the bars slide back, an' a sound of an outer door openin'. Then the door I've been starin' at swings open, on some o' those damn invisible hinges. No wonder I couldn't figger out how to get out without makin' a mess. The fresh air is a life send, an' the almond that I've been slowly chokin' on starts to clear out. Yer standard butler enters, complete with the mouth wrinkles, an' gestures outta the room. It's as close to an engraved invitation I've ever gotten, so out I go, followin' the guy in the penguin get-up.

The floors outside my room make me glad I didn't worry about tryin' to find foot wear. All marble an' other slicky type stones that my nails click on, an' they line the floor in what I'm sure are nifty patterns, but I'm busy lookin' fer a window that'll let me see outside. No such luck. I don't bother talkin' to the help. I remember that much o' the etiquette Mystique drilled into my thick skull. The butler leads the way into one o' them dinin' rooms you only see in the movies, with the long table an' only two chairs at either end. The only upliftin' thing about the whole room is the amount of junk on the table. It's like they were plannin' to feed me an' about six clones more to boot. Looks fine to me, I'm thinkin', 'till I see the figure at the other end o' the table.

The door closes behind me, echoing through the ridiculously tall room. The figure stands up, an' glides this way. It's female, all dressed up in silk an' such, in rather thin layers. She's got a veil o' some sort over her face, but I smell some o' the skin cream from the room I left. That, an' a tinge o' excitement. She ain't scared, an' that throws me off fer a bit. She pulls out the closer chair fer me, an' who am I not to take an offered seat? She then walks down the length o' the table, just enough sway in her step to keep my attention, an' settles in her chair. We've both got these high-backed monstrosities, that always remind me o' some documentary o' the English Crown or such. But I have to admit, they are kinda comfy. She takes a sip of her wine (a Perginion '65 by the smell, good choice), so I dig in.

Now what kind o' brute do you take me for now. Yes, I know how to use the silverware and plates, all proper like. I just go through massive quantities o' the spread on the table. After about twenty minutes o' just droppin' stuff down into the black hole, I slow down an' start to actually taste some o' this. Rather good, I'll admit. The cook deserves an award, an' someone had enough foresight to leave the veggies in the garden fer the most part. I'm not used to this kinda treatment, so I'm gettin' just a little unsettled. If they wanted to drug me, it would take a lot more than this, though I'm gonna pretend to forget about that numb patch thing. Just about the time I'm just gonna start screamin', just to break the forbiddin' silence o' this damn room, she starts to speak.

"Is it satisfactory?" I nod, using my napkin as I'm supposed to an' swallowin' the mouthful I'm workin' on. "Good. I'm glad you approve. I was worried that the rather rude method I used to bring you here would ruin your appetite. But considering your history, I am guessing that the exact opposite occurred." Oh, this gal knows me good. Guessin' how I work is hard on a good day. Hell, sometimes I don't know what I'm gonna do. But she did set out a good spread, an' she ain't pullin' a gun or such on me, so I'll let the history comment slide.

I try to match her tone, all royal an' such. It's a bit o' a stretch, but it kinda sounds good comin' from me. "an' where, exactly, am I right now? Other than in the dinin' room." Now I sound like some damn rich boy, all spoiled an' such. I could get very used to this.

"You are in my house, outside New York by quite a few miles." Well, it's a better answer than I figgered on gettin', considerin' my score on the other questions I've asked since this whole thing started. "I hope you can forgive the method I used to finally have you arrive here. I have been wanting to meet you for quite some time, and the situations never seemed to look right." She's got one o' them voices that just glide like satin on water. Ok, I'm slightly distracted, but I ain't off in la la land yet. But if she looks half as good as she sounds an' smells, this just might get interestin'.

I shrug, an' return to the feat to pick a few tidbits just cryin' fer a sample. "I've lived through worse introductions, darlin'. Rather strange way to set up a date though. Most people just call an' leave a message on the machine." Munchin' a bit, I continue. "I'm just hopin' that you had nothin' to do with the attack. If you did, I'm afraid I gotta kill you on principle."

An' she don't even flinch. Now that takes somethin' that most frails don't come with. Instead o' cringin' or any o' the usual reactions I get to a casual death threat, she just laughs. "Oh no. That was not my doing, though I will admit I used it to my advantage." She polishes off her glass, an' walks down the table to one o' the bottles, an' refills it. Damn, she's got a walk that'll turn heads. The dress helps alot too. So quit lookin', Victor. "One should use the situation to their advantage, as it is presented to them." She walks back to her seat, an' I'm smartin' up enough not to watch this time. "Is that not the way you live? In the moment, not worrying about the next day?" It takes me a bit to hear her, what with her laugh an' all.

Someone's been fiddlin' with the lights behind the scenes, an' now all we're goin' off of is the collection o' candles on the table an' around the room. If I didn't know any better, I'd say this frail was tryin' to seduce me. Gotta be a death wish. Only way I can explain it, an' it sets me on edge again. Who would be crazy enough to want to catch me, especially if she knows my history a bit as she claims. There's a reason I don't have many kids. She notices the shift, an' fer the first time I catch that sweet tinge o' fear in the air. "So, what's the catch? Nothin's this good without a catch in it somewhere."

That laugh again. That will drive me up the nearest wall really quick, so I'm hopin' she'll stop it. She gestures with her glass, a moment of indecision I guess. "A catch... ah, yes. You're unquenchable desire to see traitors and back stabbers in every person you ever meet. Not your most charming trait, but it makes sense, considering what I know of your history." My history? Hell, I can't figger half o' it myself, an' now she's gonna tell me my life story? This is interestin', so I'll roll with it.

"Well, history's been provin' me right fer years darlin'." I lean back, tryin' to figger out if I've totally lost control o' this situation. I'm gettin' that wall closin' in feelin' I hate, an; the red haze is threatenin' me again. I can't seem to keep the edge lately, an' I'm not happy about this. Now I know what a puppet on strings feels like, an' I'm feelin' sorry for that little wood guy right about now. I grab one o' the like eight glasses at my spot, an' fling it against a wall, the shatterin' glass soothin' on my nerves.

An' she sighs. The crazy gal sighs, like I've just spouted the best come-on line in the book. Oh yeah, she is one sick little girl. I'm tryin' to think o' one gal I've ever known that liked it when someone broke their pretty little things, an' I'm pullin' a blank. I won't do that again. I'll just leave the glass an' other breakables in their places on the table like a gentleman or such, an' behave myself. This is far beyond spooky. This has entered the realm of downright disturbin'. Scary thing is, that's the way I like things. She's good.

She picks up her glass, an' heads fer the door which swings open, then turns an' waits fer me. Forget the glass, I grab the whole bottle, an' set my pace to hers. I know my limits, an' there ain't enough kick in the bottle to give me more than a pleasant buzz fer half an hour or so. I follow her though a whole bunch o' halls, confusin' me rather badly. I never really thought about how much I relied on the sun an' moon fer my directions, but I do now.

"My family built this house many years ago, when they arrived in this country. It was out home, retreat, and fortress all in one." An' I can believe it, from the number o' historic weapons an' such mounted on the walls, all with neat little plaques that give history on them. "We came here, and we died here. This country has not been kind to us. I am the last of the true family. After me, a mere cousin will have this to care for." The house is like a maze, I can never tell where the halls meet each other. All I'm pickin' up is her scent, an' that butler's. There's not a single window I can find, an' the artificial lights are neutral. Not feelin' good dirt under my feet is unnervin', an' the air, other than fer her an' the house service, is too clean. Artificial. Not the environment I excel at.

So I'm gettin' a history lesson too. Do I look line one o' those people that gets a kick outta readin' them dusty books? "History kills us all darlin'. I'm no exception to that. I get my mind off the damn lessons, by watchin' her walk an' imaginin' all the damage I could do with nothin' more than a letter opener. then I remember the damage that walk was doin' to me earlier, an' turn back to the junk on the walls. I'm runnin' outta things I can look at around here. "So get over it. We're all gonna die. It's just a thing of when, where and how. The why ain't important in the end." That touch o' fear comes over her again, along with anticipation. She's sweatin' alright, but not o' terror. An' I'm beyond angry. I'm all the way to curious.

The tour finally ends, with us standin' in front o' the double doors that lead back into the room that reeks of almond. She turns an' glances at me, and I guess understands the look on my face, an' heads me to yet another double door room. How many guests has this gal had here? She gestures me in, an' then follows, closin' the inner door behind her. Lo an' behold, it's a twin fer my first room, minus the almond stench. I turn at the click o' the door. I've seen the doors now, an' I know I can get out any time I choose, so I don't worry. It's not like she'd be about to out-muscle me or anythin'. She faces me, an' slowly pulls off the veil thing. Guess I shouldn't have wondered if her face matched her sound an' scent.

Ouch. That's nice lookin'. I'm talkin' better than Jean Grey on a good day, better than Mystique on a better one, an' even better than the look on someone's face who's about to buy it cause o' me. I have one o' them nerveless moments, I'll admit. At least I keep my jaw off the floor, thank you very much. But you'd probably be able to take a picture of my mug an' paste it in a dictionary right next to dazed an' confused. She takes the bottle from me, an' I don't even realize this until I hear it smash against a wall. The scent o' good red wine hits me, knockin' everythin' outta reach. Then she does the most stupid thing she could do, if she values her life. I'm talkin' more stupid than some o' the stuff I've been up to the last little bit. I'm talkin' more stupid than wearin' a swastika to a Jewish cookout, dancin' in the middle of a field in a thunderstorm with ten feet o' copper tubing kinda stupid. She kisses me.

An that particular animal's leash goes right through my fingers. Game over, please check yer brain at the door, fasten your safety belt while the ride is in motion, no deposit an' no return. Oh, an' now yer interested in my story. Like I would tell you, you pervert. This was the lady's night, not yers. By the way, I did finally get her name. Stacie. An' she sure as hell knew my name. Howled it to the four winds loud enough to rattle my teeth at times. She might have left marks, but they didn't last long. I know I left a few, but not a word o' complaint from her. A hint or two? I'll agree to that. After all, it's my damn life, not her's. It was good, sweet, rough, it lasted quite a while, an' there were two people breathin' when I finally fell into dreams of blood. Only one was breathin' when I woke back up, wrapped in the sweetness o' cinnamon an' smoke.


	4. Chapter 4

You know that muzzy feelin' you have when you wake up the next mornin' after a good night with yer ladyfriend? I just kinda layed there, tastin' blood an' wine, feelin' good about just bein' alive at that moment. I usually get my jollies outta murder an' mayhem, but she did last a long time. Longer than most I've been with. Too bad she finally did break. I'm a little rough with my toys, which is fun, but there's never a repeat. Memo to all aspirin' missus Creeds out there. They usually don't live to see the mornin' after the honeymoon. I'm the master at the ultimate one night stand. I've got one, maybe two kids, not countin' that head job with the runt I'm still tryin' to sort through. Remember, I'm the best. But enough about that. There's more important things to worry about right now in my life.

I roll outta the wrecked bed, an' take a moment to finish wakin' up. Lookin' around, all the light's comin' from candles, which weren't there when we came in here. Ok, someone's been movin' around while I was sleepin'. I look over to Stacie, an' she don't look too bad off, though there are a few spots where it looks like she lost a battle with a hedge trimmer. I've been snuggled next to a corpse, an' by her heat, she's been dead for over three hours. Wonder what she finally died of? Other than just me, that is. I'm a mess again, but someone's swung a whole panel o' the wall away revealin' a bathroom. Is that really an alabaster tub? It's big enough fer even me, an' someone's poured a hot tap fer it. The heat's comin' off it in waves. A quick scrub, an' I find the clothes someone also left on the counter. Curiouser.

All dressed, I go back an' look fer the dice I'm bound an' determined to hang on to. I find it, twisted up in the remains o' the clothes I went to bed in, with the damn chain broken. So I stuff it in a pocket, an' head outta the room, darin' anyone to come an' stop me. Just my luck, there's no one in the halls, an' I wander fer a good hour before I find a door that leads to some sort o' garage. Stacie has, or really had, a nice collection o' cars, an' I don't think she'll be missin' one. Even though it's a bit of a squeeze to fit in, I've always wanted one o' these Diablo things. Droppin' the seat all the way back gives me enough room to move, an' I hit the ignition. Oh yeah, I can get used to this. All the dials an' gauges an' doo-dads light up, an; I'm feelin' like the king. Or at least a really well off prince.

I hit the lights, an' the button on the little box clipped to the visor, figgerin' it's the garage door opener. The door swings open, an' I get to spend the next ten minutes gettin' used to this clutch without throwin' myself through the window. Finally I get the hang of it, an' out I go, through one long tunnel. No wonder there weren't any windows. The flamin' house is underground! I get through, an' break out into some backroad, the moon smilin' in all her maniacs an' lunatics. The stress I didn't even know I was feelin' vanishes, an' I know it's about four in the morn. I've lost just about two full days in this little side trip, an' I'm not plannin' on losin' any more. I've been shot at, blinded, deafened, thrown through a window, knocked out, fed and entertained. Definitely a busy last three days. Ouch. Three days, that's not a lot o' time really.

Ok, I need a plan. Not havin' a plan is what got me into this, an' as fun as the last seven or so hours have been, it's really sucked to be me. So let's start with what I got, an' leave it at that. There's a wad o' cash in the glove box, so money's not important. I'm drivin' a stolen car, but that's nothin' new. I've got that dice with the chip. Now that's somethin' I can work with. I get to the main highway, and take my new ride west. I've got a long drive, but I know someone who owes me a favor, who could tell me what this chip could do. I think. Memory is such a tricky thing. Rollin' down the windows an' crankin' the stereo up, off I go, headin' to Detroit. Gawd, I hate Detroit.

I won't bore ya with all the details o' the road trip. The radio did mention the shoot up at the dance club, but wrote it off as gang related. The two dead kids at my New York crash spot did get a bit more attention, but not enough to worry. They think it's some wild animal. I'm hopin' my enemies are real dumb, an' don't put the two together. After all, how much stuff goes on in the city in one night? The death trip I take to the road, an' I leave a nice collection o' corpses at houses I crash at during the day. Most people have computer this day an' age. So's gettin' in touch with the chump that's gonna tell me what this chip does is simple, though I end up havin' to chew off two claws to handle the keyboard. But they grow real fast, so I'm not losin' anythin'. What about passwords an' such on their computers? Well, most fools have 'em taped right to their damn monitor, so they don't lose them. So much fer security.

I hit the city at nightfall as planned, an' get myself into the underground. Yeah, I don't really look like some computer hacker, but I do look dangerous, an' most o' these damn punks in here can barely pick up their lap tops, let along get a good swing on me. It's one o' them places, with wires an' cords all over the floor, an' the only light comes from about fifty screen on, flashin' graphic and code on the walls. There's not a lot o' smoke in here, but the stench o' coffee an' cheap Chinese carry-out is enough to piss me off. Don't people realize how bad they smell most o' the time? Don't I find the greatest places to meet people?

One o' the punks runs around the corner, bouncin' off o' me, an' looks up through greasy glasses. "Oh! I've been looking all over for you!" Meet Splice, one o' the only computer geeks that don't turn my stomach too bad. Looks like he's off his meds again, all wire an' jitter. I don't bother helpin' him to his feet, he just scurries under a table or two to his set-up. It takes me a bit longer to get there, windin' through the rat's nest o' junk everywhere, an' he's already clickin' away at the keys by the time I catch up. "I got everything set up for you boss, really! Totally digital, completely untraceable, everything your heart could desire in the latest in computer hardware and software!"

He goes to stand up, an' I put him back in the chair. He's one o' them hyper kids, never could sit still, but I don't care to watch him wear a path in the carpet pacin' right now. "Fine, good, whatever. tell me what this is, an' what it does." I fish the dice outta my pocket, an' hand it over. He shakes all over like I'm giving him candy or somethin', an' then does that deep thinkin' thing fer a moment.

"It's a plastic dice, for a keychain." Ok, I'm not gonna throttle him an' bury him under his computer. Not like anyone in here would notice, as long as I don't hit the power cord. But that won't answer my questions, an' I'm gettin' really tired o' not gettin' answers lately. So I just smack him on the back o' the head, an' wait fer his brains to settle down again.

"I coulda figgered that one out. I'm talkin' about the chip inside the damn thing." That dim lightbulb look finally hits him, an' he opens the thing up. Smart kid, he don't ask about the stains on it. He grabs some tweezers, an' starts to ooh an' ahh, talkin' about compression an' bites o' some sort an' gigs versus megs, but it's all over my head. Compression to me is about car engines, an' who would want to bite a microchip? I'm a real good door-kicker type, but I never took classes on computers other than how to turn them on an' get what I wanted from them. There, you happy? Somethin' I'm not the best at. Yet.

"Oh, this is wonderful!" Splice is all droolin' over this chip like it's some Mona Lisa or such, an' plugs it into a circuit board an' starts runnin' a program that I have no idea about. Then all this junk pops up on his screen, an' he just about lays an egg right there. "Amazing! The size of this program is out there, let alone they put a program on a chip. It's like a whole computer, harddrive and memory with programs, in one." Ok, I'm takin' that to mean that this thing is important to someone out there. "Where did you find this?"

I'm not gonna answer that. Splice may be one of those annoyin' computer geeks I can't stand, but he does good work and knows when to keep his mouth shut. It's hard for me to find someone this naive that'll work fer me, let alone do the job right. In this business, too much information is a bad thing, an' ignorance is bliss. Too bad I ain't ignorant any more. "Not important. What's it supposed to do?" It's a wonderful chunk of electronica, but that don't tell me shit.

"Oh... ok, simply put, this little baby picks up just about everything that travels through local modems, then sorts it for future reference. It's like a very powerful recorder, picking up all the stuff people do online, like credit card purchase and addresses." All in one wire-tap. That makes sense, but why did the frail have it, an' why give it to me? Yeah, she was kinda under duress when she handed it over, but it's not like I twisted her arm or anythin'. I'm not a number cruncher, an' she must've known that. But now it's in my hands, an' I'll find a good use fer it.

"Good enough. Now forget I was here, an' we'll all be happier fer it." I swipe the chip from him, puttin' it back in the dice, fer lack o' anywhere else to put it. It's been fine there so far, who not a bit longer? He kinda bobs in place, about the closest he gets to a nod, an' fades into his games. I glance around, but these geeks are so far gone that I think that the only reason they'd notice a tactical nuke was if it tripped the fuse box.

I'm halfway back to my car, before it hits me. This thing's gotta be one of a kind, an' she sure didn't act like it was her to begin with. This belongs to someone, an' if it can do half the things Splice says it can, that someone's gonna want it back, a hell of a lot sooner than right now. Real smart Victor. Just send up a few fireworks while yer at it fer good measure. There's gotta be a trace on this toy, an' I just had one o' the most connected systems in this state do a sweep. I pick up speed to the car, just knowin' that it's all about to hit the fan.

Too late. I round the corner, an' can already smell them. I know that scent, since it damn blinded me last time I caught it. Not the same guys, but they all buy their armor at the same department store. It's the dumb goons, an' there's a lot o' them. I pick up the speed, hopin' they don't have a heat track on me, an' dodge down one o' the gratuitous alleys in this neighborhood, fadin' into the shadow. Me, runnin' from a fight? Hell no. I just like to choose the place o' my throw downs, an' I want them to come to me. It makes it more fun, them thinkin' I'm just gonna keep runnin. Makes them sloppy in method, before I make them just sloppy.

They don't let me down, an' the first three come barreling through, all piss an' fire. It actually takes them a moment to realize that I've stopped running, but it ain't enough to help the poor sap trailin' a step behind. His neck breaks in my hand way too easy, an' he's stopped before the message hits his brain that the game is over fer him. The other two whirl around, all gun oil an' kevlar, an' manage to shoot their fellow dead goon a couple o' times before wingin' me. I'm hopin' this lasts, I need the release. Using the busted fool as a battering ram, I smash the two into the wall o' the alley, knockin' the breath outta them an' slowin' them down. One has the sense to just drop, but the other is all hell bent on makin' me pay fer the dead goon in my hands. I can see that being a problem if we met all social like, but this ain't a house call.

So what does he do? Standard move, pull a gun an' start shootin'. Well, he's already got the gun in hand, so he just shoots,. an' I get to pay a bit fer gettin' a touch cocky. He knocks a few holes into me, an' I return the favor by tearin' a chunk outta his face. He falls to his knees, gibberin' an' moanin', no longer able to blink. A definite variation on the got yer nose. But while I'm takin' down these three, the rest o' the party shows up. Now, it gets kinda confusin' right about now, with all the shit that just hit the fan set on high. A couple have knives, there's a martial artist type knockin' my head in, an' a whole army o' guns goin' off, fillin' the night with the racket an' burnt powder scent. I hold my own, but they've got numbers on me, an' I can't keep my footing in the trash that's gettin' sprayed all over the place. Armor gets cracked, flesh gets removed, an' basically all hell breaks loose fer about six minutes. I'm havin' a blast, 'till one thing goes slightly wrong.

One o' them picks up a simple trash can lid, an' gongs me with it. I'm shakin' the noise outta my head, when one hell of a big fool comes outta the wood work, an' runs his long knife into me, practically pinnin' me to the wall. Tryin' to describe that piercin' sensation that comes from cold steel goin' through a lung that's not supposed to have holes in it is hard, an' all I can manage to do to let these guys know I'm hurtin' is to howl through a mouth suddenly filled with my own blood, not a taste I enjoy. I slump an' go still, doing my best impression of a mounted insect under glass. The firefight finally slows down, as the realization that I'm not fightin' anymore sinks into them.

"Is he dead?" I hear someone whisper. I'm fightin' the urge to cough, since that won't help the perforated lung. Somewhere along the fight, I caught a good one across the nose, an' I can't smell a damn thing. From the sounds of it though, there's only four or so o' them left, includin' the moron that mounted me to the wall. "I think he's dead." Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. It's right up there with this is gonna hurt an' it's good fer ya. "Ohmigod, we killed Sabretooth." Just keep on believin' that, fanboy, an' I'm just gonna hang here an' heal fer a moment.

I hear footsteps run off, I guess to go get their boss an' celebrate their victory over the dead Tooth Monger they pinned to the wall. It gets quiet in the alley, the only sound reachin' my ears is the drip o' blood onto the concrete, some o' which is mine. Oh yeah, I'm feelin' kinda low right about now. Then I hear somethin' else. Someone breathin' real soft like, like they don't want to wake me from the dead. I'm hopin' it's the goon that stapled me, cause I'm not dead just yet, an' he owes me one. He steps close, close enough that I can pick up his heartbeat. My nose has just about recovered from it's unfortunate impact on someone's face, so I catch a whiff o' sweat an' leather/ He's close enough that I can feel his breath, an' figger out that he has a thing fer grape bubblegum. He grabs my jaw, an' lifts up my face to get a good look at me. He just stuck his hand into the tiger's mouth.

Faster than this guy's ever seen, I twist my head an' latch onto his hand, crunchin' bones under the pressure. He's got a reason to holler now, an' he uses it. I first drag my claws across his face, catchin' fer a moment in an eye socket, then I just haul off an' punch him. He falls heavy, leavin' a finger or two still in my mouth. Oh yeah, finger food, better than chicken nuggets. Down the hatch they go, an' I pull myself off the wall, grinnin' through the gore on my face at his expression. Guess he's never seen a man return from the dead. All he sees is me leavin' the pigsticker in the bricks, as I get off the wall the hard way, tearin' myself up a bit more, but it sure looks impressive. He's got one eye left, an' I intend to use it in good drama. Really slow like, I rest my hand over his chest, a little off to the side.

"I owe ya one, bub." He sees it comin', an' it's enough to make me a happy camper. I reach in, shatterin' bones an' tearin' through muscle, an' grab ahold o' his lung in the mess in there. "See ya later, if yer lucky." Squeeze, an' all the blood in his body starts pourin' outta every which way, as I let him know just how bad his trick with the blade hurt. Maybe in his next life, he'll be nicer, an' leave me the hell alone. I waste the few breaths this fool has, to watch, then I head fer the rest o' the alley, stumblin' all over the place. I'll recover, I always do, but this little dance had laid one serious hurtin' on me. I ain't hurt this bad since my last go-around with the runt, an' that's been a few months or so. I need somewhere to hole up, now. Right now.

Beggars can't be chooser, so I go fer the first thing I find. I jimmy the lock on a door, an' down into some basement I go, the darkness swallowin' me whole. There's rats an' trash an' it smells like someone died down here, but there's no sign o' recent habitation. Pullin' the door shut, I basically fall down a flight o' stairs, to land in some really nasty slime at the bottom. I'm crawlin' more on instinct than anythin' else, an' get to a wall to prop up against before my lungs an' chest start to complain too much. Give me a few hours, an' I'll be as good as new, though I still don't really know how it works. Go figger. Sinister never let me in on what he found, an' I was smart enough not to ask. So I slide off into the silence, tryin' not to think about that damn cinnamon an' smoke.


	5. Chapter 5

When I wake up, there's light comin' through some crudded over window, an' I learn that dawn has done come without lettin' me know. How rude. It takes me a bit to get to my feet, with the slidin' in the muck I've been snoozin' in fer the last few hours or so. I clean off as best I can, an' take ahold o' the situation, tryin' not to let this whole mess get me down. After givin' up the search for a missin' shoe, I go an' squat down on the steps I fell off of earlier, as to get me somewhat outta the sludge down there. I can smell it, an' it ain't nice. Now I know someone died down here. Ugh. It's enough to put off my stomach, if I had eaten anythin' lately.

What do I know? I hate to admit it, but not that much. I'm totin' a chip that can do all kinds o' wonderful things, but I can't use it without gettin' tracked. My angel, as it were, is dead in her own bed, an' I'm drivin' her right nice car. There's someone whackin' off old pros, instead o' payin' retirement, an' I don't even remember who was doin' the hirin'. An' last but not least, there's that naggin' scent I keep catchin', but I can't seem to pin down long enough to track. I've been knocked out, knocked around, drugged, shot, stabbed, an' I've got mud in my hair. This stinks, in more ways than one. Who out there knows me well enough to teach or train these goons on how to take me down? Can't be the runt, 'cause that just sets him up too. Deathstrike knows better. Mystique, I ain't seen in a while, I think. So who?

After headin' back up the stairs, an' gettin' to a public restroom, I clean the gunk offa me an' try to think, but it's like plowin' through clay. I'm comin' apart at the seams, an' I know it. Birdie. If she wasn't dead, I'd kill her fer dyin' on me. So, on top o' all o' this, I'd better hurry up, or someone's gonna get lucky real soon an' have a throw rug to parade over. An; I don't look good as an addition to someone's interior decoratin' projects. What does that leave me then. I look into the mirror, an' see the red edges o' my eyes. I'm needin' some good sleep, but that might just be a dream at this moment. I don't look rugged, I look ragged. Time to regroup.

It takes a bit to remember where I parked the damn car, but I get there an' haul tail outta the neighborhood. Lucky no one jacked the tires. I rummage in the glove compartment, an' come up with a few credit cards. Good, easy money, the best kind. The cards with the cash I found earlier covers expenses. No respectful hotel takes ya without luggage an' money, so I'm in luck. An' all the high an' mighty hotels have internet connection. Three hours, a couple thousand dollars an' some serious headaches later, I've got luggage, clothes, a laptop an' all them neat bathroom toys. Now I remember why, in my twenties I figger, I wanted to make it my life's work to personally firebomb every department store an' mall in North America. Though it was a nice surprise to find them cards had my name on them. That gal was twisted, but she was good at this plannin' thing.

I know, the idea o' findin' a nice high end hotel in Detroit sounds like a long shot, but there are some. An' a Vic Creed, esq., is now habitatin' there. They get the message about leavin' me alone after a long business trip, an' that I'm gonna need that internet connection later, but I've got more important things to do right now that figger out what I'm gonna do. Like room service. Three steaks, a plate o' french fries, some green apples, a baked chicken, an' a good half dozen o' them shrimp cocktail thing, up to the room of mister Creed, thank you very much. Leave the bell boy a good tip, an' settle down with food an' my newly purchased laptop. One thing I miss about the old days. All o' this instant communication junk is fer the birds. Splice sent me the data on the chip, like I could read it, but he was nice enough to put some o' it in english fer yers truly. After perusin' all this psychobabble, I figger out that the chip was built somewhere out west, by one o' the lines o' code or such. Don't these people believe in them stickers that have the 'made in' on them?

After two days o' patchin' up, restin' an' swimmin' laps in the heated pool, all o' this cushy livin's drivin' me up the nearest wall. So I check out, an' hit the road. The hotel people invite me to come back, sayin' that I'm the model guest. Hell, I was too tired to cause a ruckus, an' the room service guy was never late. West, then. Now where do they build all o' that software an' hardware out there? Even I know the answer to that one. California, Silicon Valley. At least it gets me outta Detroit, an' none too soon. My handiwork in the alley was found, an' the reporter people are startin' to guess who is doin' it, an' connectin' it to the New York killings an' the murders across the eastern country. Time to vanish.

I get the contents o' one o' my post office boxes Fed Ex-ed to me, an' now I'm Jeremy Smith. Very blendable, just the nice guy with lots o' money goin' on a trip all the way from Atlanta. Never even used this one before, so I'm hopin' it'll throw off the fan club goons long enough to figger out who owns this chip an' who the employer o' the dead co-workers is. Huntin' people, somethin' I'm the best at. This won't take much longer now. Followin' the code trace from the chip, I locate which company that had a hand in buildin' the damn thing. So later, I pick up some stuff you don't find in a department store, an' get ready fer some old fashioned breakin' an' enterin'. I lost my colors way back before the club, so tonight's gonna be all black. An' anyone who says that mercs are a dyin' breed never crawled through the underside o' society. It takes only two hours to get everythin', an' these people don't try to pawn off the latest fragrance in the bargain. All the tools a good bad guy needs to handle some illegal trespassin'. If I didn't miss it so much, I'd be mad about gettin' back in the business.

It's about three in the morn, about the time when even the night security is noddin' off, an' the moon is covered by clouds. Must be my lucky night tonight. I know most o' them professional thieves go all in fer that plannin' ahead stuff, but if my senses don't catch it, all the studyin' in the world won't help me. I'm instinctual, not a book worm after all. I wait until the sprinklers shut off nearby, an' ghost across the grass, not even disturbin' the breeze. Drop around back, listenin' for the hum o' the motors in surveillance cameras in the silence o' the night. There's a couple, but their view is compromised by the darkness. No infrared on them, no motion detectors. Sloppy setup, I'll leave them a note tellin' them so. Poppin' the lock on an employee entrance takes a moment, then ya just slide one o' them magnetic strips in the gap to keep the internal alarms fooled. A little bit o' shoulder on the frame, an' in I go.

They've got the hall lights set low fer cost I'm figgerin', an' I act like a shadow down the hall to the set o' cubes people work in. I hate cubes, what's the point o' havin' walls, but no ceilin' or door? Some moron always leaves a system on, an' I'm bankin' on that. Lucky me, the rule still stands, an' all I gotta go through is a screen-saver code. So I pull a snapshot of this sucker's ladyfriend off the bulletin board, an' right there on the back is her name. These people should really wise up someday, this is gettin' too easy. Crackin' vault combos was never this smooth. A few point an' clicks, an' I've got the entire layout, as well as this sap's list o' passwords. I need the record room now. Puttin' the picture back, and returnin' the screen to where I found it, I head back down the hall, an' nearly scare myself outta my own skin when the A/C kicks on. Smooth, Victor.

The record room is right down the corridor, an' up two flights o' stairs. Memo to would-be thieves. Never take the elevators. It's a great way to tell everyone an' their kid brother that someone's in the building that shouldn't be there. I hot-foot it up the flights, an' ease the door open. Some places still go fer those lock behind ya doors, but it tends to annoy night security, so they're goin' outta style. Just in case, I strap some duct tape over the latch. Just leave yourself a little tab to pull it loose when ya leave, an' no one is the wiser. I take a moment to check around me. Still no sound or scent o' guards. Apparently, all the cameras are on the outside. Guess they never figgered on someone gettin' in. Into the record room I go, an' use the codes from the downstairs machine, settin' this guy up to get fired fer industrial espionage. Maybe he'll be smarter fer the loss. Now comes the tricky part. I don't even know the name o' the chip I'm lookin' fer, so I do it the old fashioned way. Pluggin' in the Zip drive I picked up durin' my shoppin' trip, I just start downloadin' everythin' that looks important. Another memo. Never use the printer. I don't care how quiet they are these days, in a silent building the sound stands out.

It take a little longer than I woulda liked, an' I've got a whole shoebox o' disks, but the deed is done. Unpluggin' the Zip an' loggin' out, I head to the hall an' the stairs. Pull the tape away, head down the stairs. Out into the corridor I used earlier, I finally catch it. A whiff o' coffee an' glazed donuts. An' Marlboros. Someone's smokin' in the building against regulations. Guards. Then the footsteps come into hearin', an' they're a bit close fer comfort. I duck into the nearest door, an' ease it shut behind me, makin' sure it don't slam or squeak. I'm standin' in the middle o' some small waitin' room or somethin', across from the restrooms. Not the wisest place to me, so I duck into the ladies room. Just in time, 'cause I hear the door I just went through open an' close. Footsteps on the carpet, headin' this way. I move to the back o' the restroom, an' pull another toy outta it's pocket, just in case.

Then the door opens. Lucky me, livin' in a progressive society. It's a lady guard. "Hey! What are you doing in here?!?" She reaches to both her gun an' her walkie talkie link on her shirt front, but I'm too fast fer her eyes to catch on. Right in the chest she catches it, an' my new toy, one o' them volt zappers that can knock down a rabid rhino, gets her. She's out to lunch before she hits the floor, an' any other night, she'd spend the next twenty years feedin' the worms, but killin' is traceable, while a thief is half-heartedly persued. Just fer giggles though, I flush her bullets before I head out. Her motion to her walkie talkie tells me there's more than her in the building, an' I'm not in the mood right now. I do my best impression of a solid ghost, an' get back to the door I entered this place at. Close it behind me, pull the magnet strip so they can't trace it, an' over the grass I go, the only drawback is the sprinklers kickin' back on. No biggie, got the disks an' Zip wrapped in plastic.

To the edge o' the property, strip outta the black jumpsuit an' stow it behind the seat, revealin' street clothes underneath, an' I'm so gone that even Elvis would be easier to find. Back to my nice room I'm rentin', an' I dump the jumpsuit along the way in a dumpster. No reason to tote incriminatin' evidence around, now is there? It's all replaceable. Room service, I want a bottle o' yer finest wine, why yes I'm celebratin'. Me, the bottle, the laptop and the Zips go to bed, an' I get to spend the next eight hours crunchin' through reams o' junk, lookin' fer I don't know what in amongst all this garbage. But after a few tense IMs to Splice, I get the name of the yahoo who wanted this chip built. Finally, somethin's comin' together fer me. I call the front desk, an' let them know I'll be checkin' out in the mornin'. I've got more drivin' to do. Seattle. The home o' cinnamon an' smoke I'm hopin'.

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	6. Chapter 6

After all o' this drivin', an' you knowin' I've got money, you might be askin' a question right about now. Why don't this chump take a plane? Well, I'm not too fond o' havin' my feet off the ground. I know how easy those things go down an' I've sabotaged too many planes to know how easy it is to overlook somethin'. I blow a tire or run outta gas? I get to walk a bit to the car shop. Where the hell is a plane gonna stop if somethin' goes wrong? The local 7-11? Nope, I don't do air travel that much, except under duress, schedulin' or necessity. Otherwise, I'll take the highway thank you very much fer yer concern. An' it gives me time to think. Like, do I sneak in or just walk through the front door all proper like? All I've got is an address, no name to go with it. Should I go in nice or rough? Rough is more fun, but I tend to get more answers if I ask questions before removin' chunks o' someone's anatomy. Go figger.

It takes me a bit to find the address, since my mind keeps throwin' all kinds o' memories at me. I've been in this city before, an' I didn't like it much then. It ain't all that better the second go-around. To hell with this, I ain't fond o' many cities anymore. They lately breed an animal worse than anythin' I ever tangles with up in the Rockies. A human monster. I'm just the monster taken to the limit o' it's ability, is all. Enough o' that. Got more important things to think about. When I hit the neighborhood, I can feel it's the right place. All wrought iron fencing an' alarms, a Beemer in every driveway. This place stinks o' money, an' corruption. Wonder how many o' these crooks are just as bad as me. Hypocrites.

It's a Sunday night when I jump the fence. No subtlety tonight, I'm tired o' this game, as fun as it's been fer me. The dobermans get to be first, as I nail them to the nice lookin' posts at the top o' the fence. Too much soft livin' fer them, they didn't even recognize a hunter when they smelled one. Around the back o' the mansion, an' in through the slidin' door. Is it me, or does everyone forget to lock this door after an afternoon in the yard? I've done this enough to notice a trend, anyways. The motion sensors are shorted out, since I crossed the wires at the pole down the street. Then I catch it. Damn. That kevlar an' gun oil scent. I get about three seconds to prepare, an' then the walls come alive with more o' them dime a dozen goons. Figgered they'd learn their lesson by now, but I guess they need a few more. Fine by me, I'm thinkin'.

It gets really messy. Oh, it starts off all proper like, me fightin' three or four at a time, but they keep dyin', an' they have the gall to blame me personally like. Tough, they shoulda trained better. So the rules go out the window, an' it gets a little confusin' from here. Some get a few good licks in, an' that guy turnin' my head into his personal punchin' bag is pissin' me off, but I know the end was never in doubt. Stupid me, shoulda remembered these yahoos have slowed me down on two separate occasions. An' tonight ain't no different. I get nailed in the eyes by somethin' that tastes like pepper spray, an' I lose all sense o' direction. I'm fightin' blind, until my eyes decide to join the party again. It don't do much more, but it does slow me down, an' I start to feel them a little more than I care to. Oh, I'm still kickin' their collective butts from here to next month, but they ain't all goin' so quietly anymore.

Someone lays a good one across my nose, an' the crunch can be heard over the scuffle o' me an' these goons goin' at it. Dammit, it's like they plan this, Sharp pain, hacksaws butcher knives aw hell, I hate breakin' my nose. It throws everything off, an' they take advantage of it. But I'm still not down, even when one o' them kneecaps me, an' I get the fun o' fightin' on one leg. The crowd's thinnin' out, by the sound o' it, which pleases me just fine. Was that a table one o' them broke over my back? No, but that blow was. Not enough to put me down, so I pay back the favor an' spin, tearin' a lot o' chunks out that were never designed to be removed. The goons are defiantely thinnin' now.

An' then they stop. Silence, except fer the moanin' from those unfortunate enough to get into range an' not get outright killed. My eyes are comin' back into focus, an' I can see them all just standin' there, like cut outs. I'm missin' somethin', I just know it. Then a light flashes on at the top o' the stairs, an' I can make out some frail standin' there, carryin' a candle. Now this is gettin' odd.

"Good evening Victor. It is a pleasure to see you, though I doubt you see it as such." She's comin' down the stairs, an' I'm tryin' to place her. She looks damn familiar, but I can't figger out where. I'm hopin' my nose recovers soon, there's somethin' spooky about this whole setup.

"Call off the damn goons, before you run out." No, I'm not being poetic, or creative. But it's better than the line if you don't stop I'm gonna hurt you. After twenty or so minutes with these guys, you'd be hopin' fer a break too. What they lacked in talent, they more than made up in sheer numbers. I ain't been dog-piled like this since my last shindig with the Hand.

She motions to the livin' ones, an' they clear outta the room. Rather quiet too. Someone at least taught them somethin'. "Is that better? I was hoping we could talk like civilized beings, though that might be a stretch for you at this moment, after the night you have gone through." Very cute, frail. An' very nice lookin'. Reminds me o' that Stacie gal who bought it. I wonder.

"Good. Now, do ya mind tellin' me what's goin' on, before I lose my temper?" Standin' up straight takes a bit more effort than I like, but I do it an' start dustin' myself off. "This ain't been the best week or so fer me, so no more dancin' around. You tell me, or I kill you. Simple?"

She smiles. Just like Stacie. My smell is comin' back, an' that with my eyes tells me that this gal has gotta be related. An' she's covered in cinnamon an' smoke. Wonderful. "I hope it won't come to that. I want the microchip, you want some answers. Fair and simple enough, Victor?"

Hell, I ain't ever gonna need it, so I toss the dice it's in to her. She opens it up, smiles, an' then drops in on the floor an' crushes it under her heel. "There ya go. Now, my answers." Crushed. Why, after all this hell to get it back, whould she do a fool thing like that?

"The answer is simple, really. I required someone to clean out the deadwood, as it were. Though you were very insistant in no longer being on the market, I simply could not take no as an answer." I've been set up. I'm the chump in this picture. An' she is so much dead meat.

"So you pulled me in another way. Nice work, darlin'. Sorry about yer sister by the way. You shoulda taught her about playin' with fire." Shot in the dark, but it connects. The cracked china look on her face almost makes it worth it. Almost.

She has the guts to pull a gun out on me, but it's shakin' too hard to be of any use. "You... animal. You monster. That's the last thing, I'm afraid. You're just going to have to die for that." An' she pulls the trigger. I don't even bother movin'.

I take the slug in the chest, but it's no worse than a wasp sting. It hit nothin' more than meat, nothin' important, an' she knows it. Again an' again she shoots, until the whole clip is empty an' she's dry firin'. She's a lousy shot. Droppin' the gun, she falls to her knees, abject misery coverin' her face. "Why won't you just die? Why do you live, knowing what you have done?" She's startin' to cry. Good. Let her chew on fear fer a bit.

I walk over, an' squat in front o' her, catchin' her chin an' lockin' eyes with her. She's got them deer in the headlights look now. "She asked fer it. An' I never claimed to be anythin' more than a monster, darlin'." She's too much like Stacie to just take out, dammit. "What's yer name?"

"Why should you care?" Defiant even in the literal face o' death. She's brave, though a touch lackin' in the brains department right now.

"So I can remember, darlin'."

"Heather." I nod, an' make it easy like on her. She feels no pain, just stops breathin' after I snap her neck in my grip. Then I leave the house, an' head back home. Up north, to the Canadian Rockies.

I still think about then, you know. A little research, an' more o' the story comes out, though not all o' the shadows are filled. That only happens in the movies though. Appears that Stacie an' Heather were at war or somethin'. One was the brains, the other was the brawn. The chip was to be a bargainin' tool, to get them workin' together again. So much for the best laid plans I say. Never learned anythin' about the two kids that attacked me, an' Bobbi turned up late that month dead, as a suicide accordin' to the papers.

So I'm alive, they're dead, an' everythin's over, right?

But I still remember them.

~Finis~


End file.
